Practical Decisions
by DistressedMoonchild
Summary: When everyone around Harry begins thinking practical, Harry has a hard time adapting


TITLE: Practical Decisions

AUTHOR: Moonchild

RATING: PG-13

PAIRING: HP/DM

GENRE: Drama/ General

SUMMARY: When everyone around Harry begins thinking practical, Harry has a hard time adapting

WARNINGS: slash, implications of violence

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

ARCHIVING: please ask

FEEDBACK: welcomed and appreciated

**PRACTICAL DECISIONS**

**Unknown location, 20th February 1996**

At first Harry was sure that something would happen, somebody would come to his rescue, like Dumbledore in Harry's first year, Fawkes in the second, his parents' ghosts in the fourth. He believed and waited... until it was too late, even in his opinion. Of course, Harry knew he was supposed to get hurt, to look death in the face before the rescue arrived. That's how it always went. But this time was different .There was just too much hurt, too much, and finally Harry realized that if he were to be saved, it would have already happened. No one was coming after him this time.

He was the only one to blame, of course. He should have known better, should have stayed at Hogwarts instead of going to Hogsmeade with other students this weekend. Others could go, but he knew what powers were after him, that it was too dangerous. Oh, how he hated his professors now for not interfering, how he hated Dumbledore for not advising him to avoid unnecessary risk - he would have listened, he always listened to Dumbledore, - how he hated McGonagall for not making him do some extra assignment that would have kept him in the library all the weekend, how he hated Snape for not giving him detention. It was the man's favourite entertainment to give Harry detentions, why not this time? Oh god, why not this time?

Even if they were not wise enough to stop him, he should have paused and ask himself if a couple of hours of fun with his friends was worth a whole life. What would he give now to turn back time, to answer: "No, guys, I'd rather stay at school"! The wish was so strong and overwhelming that for one miraculous moment Harry believed in the possibility to call off this nightmare, to rewind the tape and return at Hogwarts where he was safe. A violent push from behind that made him fall to his knees, as his hands were bound behind his back and would not let him regain lost balance, and he was back in the reality.

Harry was dragged to the feet of a tall man in dark robes. Judging by his looks, the man was in his mid-forties. He had dark eyes and dark-hair with a touch of grey on the temples. He had a pleasant and confident smile, and reminded Harry of those businessmen Uncle Vernon was used to bring home in order to impress them with a happy familyman image and make a good deal on his drills. Those people never bought anything from his company, preferring to work with larger and more popular firms. Harry came to recognise them eventually, by their manner of speaking, by their clothes, and sometimes he was almost compelled to tell his uncle that he should not waste time on trying to persuade them. They belonged to the higher class and worked on _another level_. Harry remembered them very well, that scary impression they gave him of a ruthless shark hidden under a nice guy's mask.

"How nice of you to join us, Harry," the man started politely. "It's been a long time..."

Harry was sure he never met this man before, and yet there was something familiar about him. And the man undoubtedly knew Harry. One of Voldemort's minions who was among those greeting their master in the graveyard several months ago? Would he deliver Harry to Voldemort now?

The man reached out, and when his hand touched Harry's face, the blinding pain gave the boy the answer his eyes could not. Voldemort, it was Voldemort. But how? How did an ugly reptile-like creature manage to...? He was a wizard, Harry reminded to himself, a powerful wizard who could look like whatever he wanted.

"Harry, Harry...," Voldemort went on. "You knew this would happen, didn't you? You really should not have run away back then. Now you will wish you did."

And Harry indeed knew. Since the moment he experienced the first curse cast by resurrected Voldemort, he knew he was no match for this wizard. Being a little kid, he could have naively accepted Dumbledore's words about his powers and ability to stand in Voldemort's way, but that duel made him realize how childish this faith had been. He was a little boy thrown into a game of powerful adults, and the only thing he could do was stay alive as long as they would allow him.

"Oh, I see, you don't feel like talking. It is alright, I am sure that soon we will all be hearing your voice quite often." Harry could hear laughing somewhere in the background, but was unable to rip his eyes off the wizard who was talking to him. He noticed when Voldemort nodded to someone, but did not understand that this was a command to begin until the Cruciatus curse hit him, the first of many to come.

**Unknown location, 20th September 1996**

The wind was getting stronger, and he thought that it would start snowing again. He was sure he was somewhere in the mountains, because it was snowing so much here. If he was lucky, maybe some snowflakes would even reach him. It happened from time to time, and eventually he began to anticipate those precious moments when a little snowflake would fall at his side and let him marvel at its exquisite shape before melting to nothingness. The place was cold enough to keep them from melting too fast.

Of course, it was also cold enough to make him shiver all the time, but he could not do much about that. At least there was one good thing about the wind - it dispersed the smell emanating from the pit.

There was no good thing about the pit, at least none he could think of. It was the source of fears, of lost hopes, of despair. It covered two thirds of the cell's area, leaving him a narrow, three feet width at most, strip of space along the wall, and separating him from the little window on the opposite wall. The cell itself was of cubical form, walls stretching for about eight feet in length, width and height.

The window was placed so high that he could not look out and see the surroundings, even if he stood on his tiptoes. He probable could have crawled an uneven stone wall and look out if the window was on his side, but the pit's size would not allow this. Jumping over it was not an option since there was not even a narrowest space to stand on at the opposite wall. Nevertheless, he was happy to have this window, it was the only means to bring fresh air in his cell. It also let him distinguish between night and day. He lost count of the days a long time ago - too many days he spent unconscious, but at least he could tell that the winter was coming. Or maybe the winter already began? He was not sure.

But impossibility of reaching the window really got him sometimes. It was a horrible mockery, a constant reminding of the world outside, the world he would not see again. 

The pit was another form of torture. He used it as a toilet, but he was not the only one who used it. It was always filled with some disgusting brownish-green fluid, it would bubble periodically and little bits would float to the surface. Some of them were human parts. He tried not to look, but did it anyway, out of fear that one day the bubbling would not stop and it would flood the whole cell. Then the fluid would abate almost to nothing, as if someone drained it, and he would be able to see the whole picture of the leftovers. He threw up once just because of one unwary glance.

Flood was not the only fear, another one was to fall into the pit in his sleep. His living space was too small and one incautious move would lead to a fall. It would not kill him, the pit was not deep enough, not more than six feet to the bottom, but he would be unable to scramble out. The fluid, even if present, never filled the pit to the edges and its walls were too slippery to catch on. Not that he ever touched them, but he could see the slime. If the pit was empty, he would most likely break one or two bones. And the trauma would be left to heal on its own, those who visited him would not care about his injuries. Because of that, his sleep tended to be short and troubled. He woke up very often, each time expecting to find himself in the pit.

Sometimes he wondered if the contents of the hole, as well as the entire cell, were meant specially for him. Would Voldemort consider him important enough to arrange all this?

He began avoiding looking into the pit after Sirius. That's how he called what happened, Sirius. The man himself was gone, and he had to somehow mark this moment in his head, the moment when he had stopped hoping and waiting. It had been one of the times when the pit had been refilled once again. He assumed that it happened when they cleaned themselves and their premises from the traces of their crimes. The remains would be washed down, and this cell was a stopping point for the stream where it would stall and then slowly ooze out through the holes in the bottom. 

This time he could have discerned distinct traces of red in the slime, and had recognised blood immediately. It could not have been his blood, as they had not taken him out for "sessions" for at least three days. And then he had seen it. The head. It had been floating there, face up. If only the face had been turned down, he would have had time to look away, as he normally did, maybe he would have escaped recognition. The fact that the rest of the body had been missing had not registered in his head, and his voice had called,"Sirius!" before realization of the futility of his action had dawned.

Then he had screamed. This sight had borne so much more meaning than just the death of his godfather. It had meant that all the things they had been whispering into his ear had been real, about the fire at Hogwarts taking lives of every professor and student he had known, about the death of Weasleys, and Remus, and Sirius... He had not believed at first, sure that those had been lies to cause him even more pain... He should have known better. True, all true. All his friends had been gone, and even if he had been granted freedom now, he would have still remained dead inside. Because everyone else had been dead. He had seen the proof with his own eyes.

Odd, but after this first scream he had calmed down and stayed collected for the next several hours. He had sat there, on the very edge of the pit, and waited when the head would have floated closer. He had wanted to get it out, no, he _had needed_ to get it out. Even if it had not been his godfather, it had been a part of him and he would not have allowed it to stay in the loathsome pit. It had not worked out, as usual. Nothing he wanted did since the weekend at Hogsmeade. The head had disappeared at the bottom of the pit with everything else.

It was the first time he wanted to fall there. If only it would kill him. Unfortunately he knew all too well that it was not up to him to decide when his life would end. He could only hope that they would grow tired of him. They did grow tired sometimes. After the first few times, they grew tired of raping him. Or maybe he was too foul now and they did not want to touch him anymore? They would not bother themselves with casting cleaning spells on him, and eventually even beatings stopped. Now he was tortured mostly with hexes. Not that it made much difference to him as the one at the receiving side. The pain and humiliation were the same. Few hours of pain and then several days in the cell to recover, before the procedure would be repeated. It would be amazing how long he managed to survive if he did not hear one of them saying something about a restoring potion added to his meals, a doze just sufficient to sustain life in his body. He tried to stop eating after that, but his will was not strong enough to starve himself to death. He only hoped that maybe someday potion would be too weak to sustain his life energy.

**St.Mungo's Hospital, 20th April 1997**

Not dead. They were not dead. These were the words Harry repeated to himself like a mantra. Every day and every night. It became a new spell for him, a special self-made memory charm that would wipe out from his mind the cruel taunting. _His name was Sirius Black, right, Harry? There were others who also came to save you... Some of them were so young. The one with bright red hair. What was his name, Harry? Can you tell? He was screaming so loudly, but he never introduced himself. And the girl who cried so much... A Mudblood, wasn't she? She cried when the werewolf got his bullet. And she cried even more when the flames reached her... How touching, Harry. Who would've guessed you have so many people ready to die for you?_

Harry tried hard not to believe, very hard. But after he saw Sirius, what was left of Sirius, he believed everything. They were dead, all his friends were dead. He had nothing. Even if he ever got out, he would have no one to come back to. They all died trying to rescue him. It was bearable back at the cell. It was something he could take when his world was dark and ugly. This knowledge fit in perfectly there, a nice fact to ensure balance between his mind and his body. He was a wreck inside and outside, and maybe it was good that they never got to save him? Never got to see what had become of him? And, somehow, in that little perverted universe of his mind, Harry accepted that all his friends being dead was a good thing. It made the waiting for his own death easier.

Now he found out that it was a lie. There was just one death, that of a person who was desperate enough to attempt going after Harry. Sirius was dead, and everybody else was alive. He heard explanations: no clues where to look for him, everything indicated that he was already dead, the place he was being held in was practically unreachable... Harry understood. The risk was too big, they could not afford to lose so many people just in order to save one - most likely, already useless after everything he had been put through - boy.

They put all their effort into defeating Voldemort, and succeeded, Albus Dumbledore giving his life to achieve this. There really was no opportunity to help Harry too. And they did save him after all, right? The Aurors came and took him out, and delivered him to St.Mungo's. So there really was no reason for him to complain. Everyone loved him and wanted him to get better. At least this is what the article in Daily Prophet issued five months ago said. Harry still had a copy of it. He was no longer the centre of their attention, all papers effusively narrating the Dumbledore's Gift, as they referred to the service he had rendered to the wizarding world, and competing for the right to publish the vivid and captivating biography of Albus Dumbledore that Professor McGonagall was currently writing.

It should be a good thing that reporters were not bothering him, but for some reason it left a feeling of emptiness inside. As if all he had done, all he had gone through was for nothing. Just a waste of time, his own and people's forced to rescue him. Maybe it was right? Maybe it was true that he brought more trouble than help to everyone, and this was the first time they made the correct decision about him?

It was amazing how quickly his schoolmates forgot about him. Harry knew that his kidnapping was never advertised. Dumbledore announced to the school that Harry went away to take on extra training in some Auror camp, and people eventually stopped thinking about him. Harry Potter just went somewhere to prepare better for his next meeting with Voldemort, they probably told themselves. It was a practical, absolutely right decision on Dumbledore's side, no need to cause panic informing everyone about Harry's disappearance.

But Harry could not stop thinking about those whom Dumbledore _had_ told. And the thought that they also got used to Harry's absence seemed alien and very discomforting. Of course, they had no choice but to accept the situation, and yet...

Harry heard the footsteps and whispering behind the door. He sighed. Six bloody months in here, and they shuffled outside of his room for at least ten minutes before entering. He could understand why they had been acting so in the beginning, when he began shrieking whenever anyone entered, but now? He was acting normal, wasn't he? Well, obviously not the kind of normal they were used to, but surely he did not seem a total nutter either anymore.

The door opened, and Hermione Granger entered the room. Then Ron followed, lagging two steps behind. It figured. Of all those who visited him during his stay in the hospital, Ron obviously felt the most awkward. So he just stood behind Hermione or any other of their classmates he could talk into visiting Harry, and gave out the best impersonation of a shadow. Harry understood what Ron was feeling when he noticed how painstakingly his friend was avoiding meeting his eyes. Ron was feeling guilty.

This discovery surprised Harry. He knew the reason why, he just did not expect that Ron would be more sensitive about this than anybody else. Harry still remembered the bitterness that filled him after Hermione's exclamation at their very first meeting since Harry regained consciousness. "Oh Harry, we thought we would not see you again! Oh, what have they done to you!" And that killed a little hope that Ron and Hermione did not know. Until the words were said, Harry could pretend that his friends were also among those given the official version explaining his disappearance. Now he knew for sure. And when they left, Harry could not help letting in a traitorous question: why did not they try to save him, like he would? Because Harry knew he would do it if one of them was kidnapped. It would be a foolish, reckless thing to do, and he would surely die in the process, like Sirius had done, but he would. 

Maybe he just was not as practical as they were?...

Days passed, turning into weeks, and Harry still did not leave his bed. His day consisted of receiving various spells and potions, most of them of nerve-soothing nature. His nervous system was badly damaged throughout the long hours of Cruciatus. He was also regularly given strengthening potions, but was not quite sure of their efficiency. It was hard to notice the difference in one's condition, when one spent most of the time unable to move anyway. 

Night was the time for dreamless sleeping potions, a whole collection of them. He did not have any distinct recollection of tortures, just some vague ghost of pain he had gone through. He did not think much of Voldemort, either. Strange, but the meeting right after Harry's capture left clearest memory of the wizard. Harry knew that Voldemort was present at some of the torture sessions, but by that time Harry would be too far behind his personal pain barrier to care about observers. Voldemort simply could not make it any worse for Harry, even if he wanted to. One constant in Harry's nightmares was the pit. The pit and things it brought onto Harry. Dirty, stinking waters Harry could drown in, slimy depths he could fall into breaking his bones in the process, evidence of somebody else's death as a cruel reminding of the life outside his cell. He would give anything to forget it. Harry pondered the possibility of talking one of the mediwizards into performing a memory charm on him, but, as he found out, they were not entitled to cast those. The Ministry could grant him a special permission, but the procedure of asking his relatives to sign an official request as he was under age, then addressing the commission formed by the Ministry, then allowing them to examine his memory in order to conclude if it was really necessary to perform the spell, in other words, reliving the whole nightmare, was really too much.

Harry felt that he became quite an expert at healing. His knowledge of means to get rid of tremor, convulsions, nightmares, hysterical fits was vast... and useless. This stuff provided temporary relief, but was not working for him in the long run, rather suppressing the symptoms than helping him to get rid of his problems. More than once Harry thought that there was nothing surprising that Longbottoms never recovered. Obviously Cruciatus was such a "Dark" curse that no one wanted to research it, even to find some cure for the victims.

Aftereffects of other curses used on him were healed, without taking into account the mental trauma. They tried to make Harry talk about this, but he refused. What was there to discuss? He got hurt, and now he was placed into the hospital for recovery. Sometimes Harry thought he missed Dumbledore. The old headmaster was good at finding the right words, perhaps he would say something that would instantly cheer Harry up and make him feel better. But then Harry pictured Dumbledore announcing to the students that Harry Potter left to receive extra training and explaining to Remus and Sirius afterwards that it was too risky to go after the boy. And the wish to see Albus Dumbledore again would dissolve.

He would just deal with his troubles on his own, no need to get others involved. He already had been once left to his own devices. Right now he was not in any mortal danger, so he would make it without asking for help. Harry would not know whom to ask either way. He could not bring himself to pour his soul out to Ron and Hermione, and he never felt that close to Remus, especially not now when Sirius was gone because of Harry. The same went to the other Weasleys. They were all good people, and Harry was sure he could rely on them in a difficult situation... to a certain degree. And this was one thing he stumbled over every time his thoughts traveled in this direction. Frankly, it was their possible reaction that frightened him. What if they would begin to regard him as a cripple? Or would eventually grow annoyed with his whining? Because Harry knew that if he trusted anybody once, he would want to come back to that person looking for comforting again and again. He seriously doubted any of them was up for this task. No, he would definitely have to work through his problems by himself. And the first step was to start living again. Preferably _outside_ the hospital walls.

The mediwizards tried invigorating him with unconvincing explanations that the longer his recovery took, the more efficient and complete it would be. But after a while it became quite clear to Harry that seven months of intensive magical treatment already gave him as much as medicine could. Finally Harry said that he was ready to go to Hogwarts. His request was granted.

**Hogwarts, 20th November 1997**

Draco Malfoy left the Slytherin common room in haste, only pausing for a second to glare at an impudent sixth year who dared to squeak out "Draco, where are you going?". He still felt insulted a few minutes later. If he was going somewhere, then it was obviously his own business. After all, he was a prefect. No one was allowed to wonder about his whereabouts.

He did his best to wipe annoyed expression from his face when he entered a classroom on the fourth floor. All the lessons, as well as dinner, were finished quite a while ago, and Draco did not expect to see anyone but the certain student. He was right. The only occupant of the room was a boy sitting on the floor in the farthest corner. The boy was so small that Draco had mistaken him for a first year when he had found him here for the first time, a couple of months ago.

Draco remembered that meeting pretty well. He was patrolling the corridors, overwhelmed with the superiority of his new appointment and eager to take points from any scatterbrained student - except Slytherins, of course - who was unlucky enough to cross his path. He slowed down when he heard a murmur coming from one of the classrooms that was supposed to be empty at that hour. Draco poked his head inside and saw the strangest picture: a boy huddled on the floor, several objects of odd form and colour littered around him. The boy was reading something from a book he was holding open on his knees, or rather was trying to read, because he was stuttering almost on every word. Draco recognised the book as _Transfiguration of Compounds and Alloys_. What could a first year be doing with a textbook for the 5th grade? All in all, it was an odd and promising discovery: Draco noticed Gryffindor crest on the student's robe, and inwardly cheered in anticipation of Headmaster Snape's praise. The end of the week was approaching, and he would be able to include _illegal experiments of Gryffindor students_ into his weekly report all prefects had to present.

The boy raised his eyes, probably alerted by the door creak. Nothing could have prepared Draco for the surprise. Small form, hair cut so short that in some places it stuck out as ruffled feathers, - and _this_ was _Harry Potter_? Glasses, black hair, green eyes that now seemed huge on a pale face... The attributes were all in place, but the Gryffindor was not the same. He looked smaller and younger than anyone in their year, as if something stopped his growth. As everyone else, Draco heard that Potter returned from an Auror camp, but did not see him in any of the classes. Draco simply assumed that now Potter considered himself too important to bother appearing among mere mortals. But the current sight he was facing told him that something was wrong with this picture. People do not go to Auror camps only to come back looking like living corpses. Or this was a very bad Auror camp.

Harry Potter did not acknowledge Draco in any other way than raising his eyes. He just looked at Draco attentively, then closed his book, collected the objects that Draco now identified as victims of unsuccessful attempts at transfiguration and left, not even giving Draco another glance.

And after that Draco Malfoy became a stalker of Harry Potter. From that moment his only mission during patrolling and not patrolling was to find the classroom where Potter currently allocated and watch him. Potter, whenever he caught Draco at this task, never showed his irritation, just as Draco never reported him to the professors. Potter simply gathered his belongings and left, as if Draco finding him meant that it was time to finish studying. By the end of the second week, Draco made several conclusions: Potter became a loner, Potter was afraid of staircases, and Potter could not perform a simplest of spells properly.

The first conclusion was the most obvious one. Potter was rarely to be seen in company of any students, even Weasley and Granger. In Draco's opinion alienation from those two could be nothing but an improvement, but it did not seem that Potter found a replacement for them either. He spent time on his own, taking his meals in the kitchen, preferring to study all alone instead of joining other students in classes, a little boy who could easily pass for a first year, both by his small size and shy demeanor.

His fear of staircases became apparent to Draco after watching Potter too many times pausing before the steps, as if bracing himself, then passing the staircase swiftly never releasing his desperate grip on the railing. It was much later that Draco learned what stood behind this fear, heard a story about a staircase leading from his cell to the hall where he would be tortured, connecting two of his personal hells. It was hard to imagine this fragile boy being regularly dragged upstairs to be tortured time after time, and then being forced to crawl back, unless he had "preferred" to be pushed by a helping foot.

The problems with performing magic... well, how could someone who stammered at every word coming out of his mouth pronounce a spell correctly? And Potter's hands shook so badly when he clutched the wand.

Draco's patience could last only so long. He had to have the answers. And if this meant applying Snape-Relaxation Techniques, so be it. It took him two hours of discussing (mostly nodding with an expression of understanding and deep concern on his face) the Ministry's outrageous overly bureaucratic policy on approval of new potions to get what he wanted. Severus Snape was easy when one knew how to treat him. All it took was to repeat enthusiastically "right you are, sir" thirty-forty times, and the Potions Master, who had been recently promoted to the Headmaster of Hogwarts as a reward for his invaluable help in Voldemort's demise, melted down.

The truth was ugly and made Draco want to push it back under the carpet with a ten-feet pole. He did not really have any kind feelings towards Potter, but they were of the same age. And the idea of a boy being forgotten and subjected to months of pain did not fit very well with standard propaganda of the victorious side. It explained, though, why Potter stopped communicating with his friends. And why Snape as a headmaster allowed him to study on individual schedule. He admitted to Draco that one lesson was enough to decide that Harry Potter was incapable of studying alongside with other students.

That was when Draco committed an act that he later referred to as "temporary insanity". He asked Snape if he could have dragging Potter up to a normal student's level as a part of his prefect's obligations. Insanity indeed. Although Snape's stunned look was definitely worth it. Draco knew that as a prefect he was supposed to help at least one lagging student, and it was a perfectly common request to pick a particular one he wished to be training. Of course, no one would expect Draco Malfoy to choose _that_ student. Not even Draco Malfoy himself.

Judging by doubtful expression on Snape's face when he agreed, the headmaster expected that on the next meeting his favourite student would bring Potter's corpse. It was a miracle that this had not happened yet, really. But it had been almost a month since the beginning of their studies, and they were both alive and met regularly. Potter did not put much of a fight about this assignation too, although Draco prepared himself for resistance and screaming. Instead, Potter just shrank a little, reducing in size even more, and sighed.

And that was what brought Draco here, to this classroom. Greeting Potter with a nod, he approached and sat next to him. Potter refused to sit at desk, and all Draco's attempts to change this odd habit of sitting on the floor failed miserably. Without looking at Potter, Draco dove into the pocket of his robe and took out a package with sweets purchased on his last trip to Hogsmeade. He put the package between them. 

Draco began doing this after noticing how Potter unconsciously licked his lips staring at somebody eating a chocolate frog. He looked wistful and positively starving, as if a chocolate frog was an unreachable thing he could only dream of. Draco did not bother to ask why Potter could not go to Hogsmeade himself - he never left Hogwarts' walls, or why he did not ask one of his fellow Gryffindors to buy him some. He simply brought some sweets to their next lesson. By placing the package between them he indicated that this was a treat meant for both. Draco did not take any himself, but the package emptied on its own by the end of the lesson. Potter never said a word of thanks to him, but Draco did not expect or want this. Thanking would mean that it was indeed a present from him to Potter, and Draco would rather keep this delicate accidental nature of the ritual: indifferent placing of the package on the floor and subsequent, practically unnoticeable consumption of its contents. Sometimes Draco got the feeling that Potter was becoming even thinner (which was probably true since Potter often forgot to eat at all) and also brought sandwiches, making sure that they appeared on the floor before sweets and disappeared properly. Those small gestures were accepted with caution and hesitation at first, but eventually developed into a habit for both parties.

"Damn it!" When Harry got angry, his stutter disappeared. 

The exclamation distracted Draco from thoughts about chocolate frogs and inconsiderate friends. "What's the problem this time, Potter? I thought you understood the task."

"I d-did. Just... that st-tupid cup..."

Draco fought an urge to let out an exasperated sigh. How could Potter be _that_ incompetent, honestly? It was a miracle he had not been expelled yet. Probably Snape deliberately ignored Gryffindor's problems because he felt guilty. Draco had no doubt that Snape had been well aware where Potter had been held, but had not done anything about it, reluctant to risk his position of a spy. Tough choice, really, and although Draco's common sense told him that there had been no other way, he still could not suppress bitter satisfaction that he felt every time Snape's hands shook after hearing out Draco's report on his progress with Potter.

He began patiently. "Let's repeat again, how do you do the spell?"

"I point my wand-d at..."

"No-no. What do you do in your _head_ to make the spell work?" Draco pressed a finger to Potter's temple to emphasize his words.

"I imagine the ob-bject changing int-to what I want."

"Ahh... I recognise McGonagall's thorough approach. There are easier ways to achieve what you need, you know. Don't try changing every property of the object, each of its characteristics," Draco moved closer, circling one arm around Potter's shoulders and aligning the other with Potter's right arm. He placed his hand over Potter's, showing that he needed to direct his wand at the cup again. Potter tensed a little under his touch and then relaxed. At least he did not jerk away as he had been used to.

"Now close your eyes and picture the result. Imagine all the details, form, colour, texture, how much it should weigh," Draco paused glancing at Potter. "Understand?"

"Yeah," Potter breathed out.

"Then open your eyes." 

Green eyes blinked, re-accustoming to the light, and widened in surprise. "Oh, it work-ked!"

The cup in front of them disappeared, instead of it a small violet feather was curving on the floor.

Suddenly Potter's amazed expression changed into one of suspicion, as he stared at Draco accusingly. "D-did you do it?"

Draco sneered. "You think I have nothing better to do than play stupid games with you? You did it yourself, Potter. But don't flatter yourself, it is not a real feather. It looks and feels like one to the touch, but if you try to bend it, it will break as normal porcelain."

Potter frowned. "S-so it's not real transfig-guration? It's cheat-ting?!"

"I would call it a more practical approach. You want to see a feather and McGonagall wants to see a feather at the exam. So you both get what you want," Draco explained in a condescending tone.

The lesson ended shortly after that, as any effort exhausted Potter pretty fast. Draco had serious doubts about further progress. He knew they should be covering more material in order to prepare Potter for passing O.W.L.s, but the Gryffindor did not have much energy, and they had to revise a lot of third and fourth years' material as well. It seemed that Potter forgot most of it.

They gathered their things, and Potter headed for his room. He was given a premise of his own in the Gryffindor tower. It was yet another indulgence at Snape's part, in Draco's opinion, but a necessary one. Potter appeared to be totally unable to deal with other people's presence in the room where he was sleeping, and the teachers found him more than once fallen asleep in the corridor near the happily snoring Fat Lady's portrait. After several occasions he had been provided a small personal room, although he did not have a status of a Head Boy or at least a prefect.

Draco already began descending the staircase and almost stumbled when he heard a timid "Would you come t-to my room tonight?" mumbled behind him. Draco turned around and nodded. "Sure, why not?" It must have been really bad for Potter the last few nights, if he asked for Draco's company. He knew about the other boy's nightmares, and his unwillingness to approach Snape with this problem. When Snape became the headmaster, he took all potions under his control, and now even Madam Pomfrey could not give anyone a potion without Snape's specific approval. It was probably for the best, as the Potions master was much more familiar with this field than Pomfrey and sometimes even brewed a potion for a specific case instead of prescribing a standard one, but this left Potter in a predicament: he did not want to tell Snape of his troubles, but could not deal with the nightmares otherwise. Draco would most likely help him, if Snape was not very strict about unauthorised potion-making within the school walls. Even Draco knew better than cross certain boundaries.

There was only one form of relief he could offer: his own company. Strange, but Potter, normally wary of anyone's proximity, was alright with the idea of Draco guarding his sleep. In fact, there were plenty of things the Gryffindor trusted Draco with...

After taking shower and changing into pajamas, they climbed into bed. Draco waited till the other boy laid his head onto the pillow. Then he pulled out the wand and whispered the usual Sentinel spell. It covered the bed curtains with hundreds of bells that would ring if somebody tried to pull them open from the outside or attempted to use magic in the room.

Potter was unable to perform the spell himself, and, frankly speaking, there was not much need for it, with all the protection wards around the room, but Draco did that anyway to make the other one feel more comfortable.

Draco settled down and closed his eyes, prepared to bolt up on the first sound of distress from Potter's side of the bed. Judging by his previous experience, he would not have to wait too long before the nightmares began. He did not know what they were about, but he had a fair idea that most of them concentrated on a fear to fall somewhere, and that often forced Draco to hold the boy tightly, reassuring him that there was no danger of falling.

He felt shifting and asked, without opening his eyes, "What is it?"

There was a pause, then, "Am I v-very ugly now?"

Draco's eyes flew open. "What?!" Stupid question. He knew _what_. He had had a few glimpses of Potter's body before, and could understand why Potter would be worried about being considered ugly. Spells leave marks too, and quite nasty ones at that. Potter's thinness and paleness only added to the general unhealthy look. He did not want to lie that Potter looked very good, so he chose the compromise truth, "No, I don't find you ugly, Potter."

The next words were whispered in a slightly different tone that Draco recognised immediately, "You d-don't?"

And Draco had no choice than to prove his statement. He realised that this was an absolutely wrong thing to do with an insecure vulnerable person he was placed in charge of. Definitely immoral, and the consequences could be dreadful. Besides, Potter probably wanted this only because he was scared of being alone or because he was excited about today's little achievement at transfiguration.

So what?

He moved closer and pressed his lips to the black-haired boy's throat, his hands confidently sliding under the thin pajamas' fabric, his body already reacting and meeting an equally eager response.

**Hogwarts' main entrance, 20th June 1998**

Draco went outside and strode purposefully to the carriage waiting to take him to the train station. This was the moment he began dreaming of even before he entered Hogwarts: graduation and triumphant emerging from the main entrance of Hogwarts, right into the welcoming embrace of his parents, with all professors watching him leaving and sighing contritely about the loss of the best student the school ever had. No other students were in the picture, of course. All of them were supposed to... well, graduate some other time, perhaps. Either wait till his fantasy was finished or do it earlier.

The reality was a bit more dull. To begin with, his parents were nowhere in sight. True, they sent Draco ciphered greetings and congratulations, and he knew that a celebration dinner in their company was arranged for him in France. Nothing else should be expected, unless he wanted Lucius and Narcissa to be arrested by the Aurors at the Hogwarts' doorstep. Although it would be nice to see them in person right now, not when he arrived to France.

It has been one and a half year since Draco's parents moved into forced exile. The escape was Lucius' - very clever and well-timed - decision inspired by rapid deterioration of Voldemort's little empire. The whole Malfoy family just _happened_ to take a vacation and disappear shortly before Dark Lord's demise. As soon as no trace of doubt in identifying the victorious side was left, Draco was sent back with a mission.

Dubious past of his father attracted attention of some overzealous Aurors, and they somehow managed to talk the Ministry of Magic into launch of a full-fledged investigation of Malfoys' activities during Voldemort's reign. Lucius assumed that Imperius version would not be found credible enough the second time, and left it to Draco to settle the problem, knowing very well that no action would be taken against his son or his property until his guilt was proven.

They went to Narcissa' relatives in France, and ceased open contact with Draco for security of both parties. That gave Draco an unexpected amount of freedom and responsibility. He used both to the full, sending generous donations to various Muggle organisations and skillfully playing the tragic role of a boy practically orphaned by cruel high-ranking Ministry officials. Not that he was in much hurry to arrange his parents' return. First, he wanted to demonstrate to his father how hard the task of acquittal was, so that Lucius appreciated his hard work. Second, he had serious doubts he would be allowed to fulfill his old dream to organise a potion-making experimental laboratory, with his parents completely controlling his expenses, so he used the arisen opportunity.

Now the investigation, due to Draco's efforts, was steadily withering into nothingness, and he had no doubt that his parents' way home would be easy and pleasant. After all, who would dare to say something bad about people who had undertaken a life-threatening journey to France in order to find veelas' colony and beg for their help in the fight against Voldemort?

Still, Draco was a bit upset about his parents' absence. Although he would rather kill himself than admitted that this was not the happiest day of his life. He was a Malfoy, a Malfoy who just graduated, his parents sent him congratulations, and there was no one important around, aside from him. There was approximately a dozen of students also levitating their trunks into carriages at the moment, but they did not count. At least Draco had a consolation that there was no need for him to share his carriage with other students and hear out their oh so wonderful and breathtaking future plans all the way to the train station. He had enough foresight to order a carriage from Hogsmeade specially for him.

Unfortunately, the last thought brought to surface another bitter fact: not only a cheering crowd was not meeting him at the gates, he was also _leaving_ alone. Harry was staying here, at Hogwarts, to continue studying and preparing for passing his N.E.W.T.s. It was obvious to Draco that despite their combined efforts Harry would not be able to graduate from Hogwarts without taking an additional year of studies, and even then he doubted that Harry would manage to reach an average student's level. He tried in vain to convince Harry to go to France with him and assist him in opening the laboratory. Draco was fairly sure that Harry's progress in studying mostly depended on Draco's teaching abilities and that he would do better in Draco's company.

Without Draco, he would slip again into heavy depression and spend all the time alone. No matter how hard Draco tried, there were still things Harry held on to fast. Like his insistence on casting protection charms every night or stubborn adherence to a very short haircut. Draco once had attempted to dig out the reason for the latter, and got a whispered admission that Harry had been afraid of somebody dragging him by his hair again if it had grown too long. The word "again" had been the worst part of the confession. After that Draco had begun to cut Harry's hair himself, to make it look decent at least. Without much success.

Draco could not see how staying at Hogwarts would help Harry to get better. He never talked to any of the professors, except when he turned in the next assignment, never spent time with other kids. Yet Harry kept clinging to this place, as if it was not obvious that Draco was the only one whom Harry could trust to help with his studies, to deal with his fears, stutter, regular nightmares, and undernourishment.

Draco suspected that Harry also understood that, but refused to admit the truth, either because of his pride, or because his attachment to Hogwarts was too strong. After all, Hogwarts was his second, if not the first, home, and he felt safe here. These days safety was what Harry Potter valued above all, Draco thought bitterly. But why could not he see that Draco would give him everything he needed?

He opened the carriage door and froze. Somebody was already sitting inside. Draco recognised the uninvited occupant of his carriage before the latter raised his head. Short black hair sticking out in the air as feathers of a baby bird, slouched tense shoulders... Harry Po- well, not really. Just _his_ Harry.

"Harry? What are you doing here?" damn it, why did his voice become hoarse all of a sudden? He probably caught a cold. Sure, a cold.

"Does your offer still s-stands?"

Draco did not need to ask what offer was meant. "Yes."

A little smile. "I am ac-cepting it, then." The stutter that had almost disappeared in the course of the last months, still returned when Harry was nervous.

The boys stared into each other's eyes for a moment, both completely still. Finally Draco gave an almost imperceptible nod and climbed inside.

The carriage started the motion. Draco's arms automatically wrapped around Harry, and the boy leaned into the embrace and closed his eyes, shivering slightly. This did not escape Draco's attention, and he knew immediately that Harry needed reassurance to fight off the dread of leaving the "safe place".

"Everything will be alright, Harry," Draco whispered, pressing his lips to Harry's ear. "Everyone must think practical now and then. You just made a practical decision, too. You know that we are better off together. I promise I will take care of you." And this was the truth. As long as Draco Malfoy was alive, no one would hurt his Harry again. It was an established truth that Malfoys were extremely good at protecting their loved ones. 

**The End**


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